Urban Fishing at it's Finest - Chesapeake Striped fish on foot.

Is it just me or do a lot of folks around the DMV just absolutely LOVE trout fishing? I mean like - LETS LOAD UP THE CAR, DRIVE 5 HOURS, CATCH TWO FISH UNDER 14” AND COME HOME HEROES - sort of love. I don’t mean any offense, trout are wonderful little creatures that sometimes get big, are often beautiful, and live in pretty chill places… but during the summer our fishery just isn’t all that great. Terrestrials on spring creeks and tight line nymphing tailwaters are about the only games in town outside of the sporadic hatch…but if folks are willing to drive 1.5hrs from the District for tough trout fishing…let alone 3hrs for decent-good trout fishing…wouldn’t they be willing to drive 45 minutes for good saltwater fishing? ​

Urban fishing is what it is. We all have horror stories from almost hooking a curious onlooker with our backcast or having someone harass us about why and what we’re fishing for, but Baltimore is different breed of urban fishery. Especially from that of the District. For one, Baltimore isn’t a city that’s in denial of its watery origins or should I say… Baltimoreans aren’t oblivious to the fact that their city is on the water. For example: instead of the comical “are there fish in there?” question that is posed by many a pedestrian in DC (seriously, bro?), Charm City folks ask “catch any good ones?” They know the fish are there. Hell, everyone who stops and chats with you has some sort of story about fishing the harbor or that one time their grampy caught a bull shark (true story). It’s good stuff.

Second, although a major metropolis in its own right, Baltimore does not nearly harbor as many pedestrians…or at least they disappear during daytime. Imagine fishing the Tidal Basin without a soul in sight? Wouldn’t that be great…

Well, during weekdays in the summer and fall, the entire Inner Harbor Promenade is essentially your playground. There’s even a nifty Harbor Commuter boat to take you from one side to the other…which paid big dividends in early September when I found a decent blitz under birds right off of Baltimore light and Pier VII Pavilion…yeah - by the Trash Wheel. But from Mid-July to early November, this is what urban anglers can expect to find. Birds, bait, and bass. Especially at first and last light.

Starting when the thermometer trends upwards, Baltimore’s Inner Harbor is absolutely loaded with striped bass. Schoolies from 6-25”, with the average being about 12-16", that for the most part, will destroy a small streamer or popper with reckless abandon from sun up to sun down…or at least when there is a moving tide. While light tackle is the easier path to take due to the sometime tight confines and awkward angles that force anglers and pedestrian to cross paths - fly fishing can be done effectively from a few spots even during the peak of pedestrian rush hour…it’s all about managing that back cast!

This past year I recruited a couple fellow fish freaks to join in the pursuit of urban linesiders. From August through the latter weeks of October, Dan, Charlie, Logan, and I consistently found good fish within steps of our Fed Hill abodes and the topwater bite was par none. If you’ve never seen a spook or popper tossed five feet in the air by a wolf pack of angry stripers…you haven’t lived bro.

Now, let’s get this straight. I am in no way, shape, or form advocating that Baltimore’s Inner Harbor is a world class striper fishery. It is very urban. Some days are certainly better than others when it comes to fish catching. Some days the water quality is way off and there is trash everywhere. But I’m not saying anything new here. These are problems we are used to on the Potomac…so if you’re seeking a day of fishing for linesiders next summer and can’t get out on a boat, skip the Gunpowder and give the Inner Harbor a shot. You’ll never know unless you go.

The fish gods don't careby Kevin huntington

Over the past couple of months I’ve spent nearly every weekend on the water chasing trout in VA, MD, PA and NY. From stockers to native brookies and wild browns and bows, I got into a little bit of everything and had a blast doing it. As is the case with this wonderful sport, each new piece of water presented a fresh tactic or challenge, which to me is a big reason why we do what we do. There are no words to describe the feeling you get when you stick that first lunker on a new piece of water, totally out of your comfort zone, wondering in the back of your mind if the trout are rolling because they are hungry or just plain laughing at you. Regardless of success, each trip out on the river is a chance to sharpen your tools, add crucial experience, and put more arrows in your quiver of fishing expertise, so never pass up an opportunity to learn something new. It may just pay off down the road. Starting in early June, my pops and I had a couple father-son trips on the books to some blue ribbon trout streams that we were both anxiously awaiting. The first long weekend took us up towards Penn State University in State College, PA to fish the fabled Penn’s Creek and Spring Creek— two of PA’s more famous trout waters. That said, the Fish God’s could care less. The entire week leading up to the trip was unfortunately filled with rain….lots of rain…which promptly threw a wrench in our plans. The rain mercifully subsided on Wednesday evening and since our first day on the water was Friday, I was cautiously optimistic that maybe, just maybe we’d have fishable water. After the 3½ hour trek up from the Philadelphia area, we got our first look at the river on Friday morning and it was obvious my optimism hadn’t done me much good. We had hoped to arrive to a gently rolling river and green drakes so thick you can barely see. But as is fishing, we got a temperamental river and not a single drake in sight. The river was high, dirty, and flowing hard. Our first day was spent throwing dries at sparsely rising fish, and nymphing standard pheasant tail and drake nymphs. Pops brought a couple decent browns to hand, but your boy had nothing to show on Day 1. That’s just how it goes sometimes. The next day we called an audible and drove about 40 miles out to Spring Creek right next to Penn State University. It turned out to be one of those trip-saving calls as Spring Creek was in prime shape – just slightly full from the past rains and slightly off color. We started our day off dead drifting the same fly choices as before, but when you’re fishing a spring creek, it’s never a bad idea to throw one a scud or cressbug to see who’s home. Size 16 olive scuds were the choice of the day, and produced a bunch of nice fish throughout our time on the water. That said, Hawg Johnson and a shot at the 20/20 club eluded me once again. I saw the monster finning in a tailout at the end of a skinny side run –often, a fatal error for any large trout. As I got mentally prepared to take on this beast one-on-one, I proceeded to throw about 6 different nymphs at him with no love. WHAT GIVES? But in times like this, sometimes you just have to go back to basics. I tied on a crystal bead head #20 zebra midge, and the fish couldn’t say no. After setting hard on him, the beast immediately bolted downstream towards the next riffle, with me running along the side of the stream doing my best Brad Pitt impression. Dodging logs and rocks all while trying to keep some tension, I wrangled him into some slower water, and had him 5 feet from me. Five fucking feet from pay-net. As I reached for my net, I felt a small tick. The line went slack and immediately was filled up with that oh-so-awful feeling that can bring any fly angler to his knees. The fly came out clean. My entire effort dashed in the span of half a second. In disbelief, I watched him swim away without ever as much as getting his head out of the water. But that’s why we fish. Hawg will always keep me coming back for more. A couple weeks later, my dad and I ventured just across the PA border into New York to fish the West Branch of the Delaware River. As far as the East Coast goes, the West Branch is a place where you can catch monster browns on dry flies on a fairly regular basis. You have to wait for your shots, and make them count, but when it’s on it can be off the hook. That being said, 2014 has been an odd weather spring with the rough winter we had. The bugs just didn’t arrive in numbers as early as usual. Again, the Fish Gods bullied us and we arrived to a river with very little insect activity. It would not deter us. We floated different sections of the river the next two full days. The first day was spent stalking big fish, and we only really got a couple decent looks at 2 fish. Neither of which wanted to come out and play. But the first evening saw the biggest brown of the trip caught. He munched a greyfox collar style dry fly and put up a great fight—topping out around 18” with a big old butter belly. The second day was spent nymphing faster water with mostly pheasant tails and iso nymphs. We got into a few more fish, but not the monster brown we came to hunt. Hawg would remain elusive. The best fish of day 2 was an 18” rainbow that munched an iso nymph. I was fishing a 10’ two-handed switch 5 weight that was built to nymph, and this brute almost took me into my backing running downstream. After a good 10 minute fight, he was eventually brought to the net, and we got a couple grip and grin shots for the folks back home. The biggest lesson learned fishing for these larger fish on smaller tackle was get the fish ON THE REEL. For better or for worse, many of the smaller trout streams around the DC area often don’t require the drag a reel provides. However if you try to strip these fish on light tippet, you’re going to snap them off fish after fish. It’s worse than death by a thousand cuts. We highly recommend that whenever possible - get your fish on the reel and let it do its job! Overall both trips were a blast and time well spent with good company. We had a lot of laughs, kept sharpening our tools each day out, drank plenty of frothy beverages and even caught a few fish to boot. I’m sure we’ll be back to both State College and the West Branch soon. Hawg Johnson is always lurking around the next bend. Stay Fly.

The west is wild.Brogan Jayne

The 4th of July has always held a special place in my heart. It is one of my favorite holidays for several reasons including freedom, family, friends, fireworks, and dry flies to name a few. Last summer I was fortunate enough to spend the 4th with my family and lovely girlfriend near the town of Basalt, CO. Some may have heard of this small fishy town, just 20 miles from Aspen, CO. This area is prime trout habitat as the Frying Pan dumps into the Roaring Fork just south of town. We hit it just right last year as the green drakes were going off in huge numbers, and I literally caught a fish every cast from dark to dark 30. If you’re into trout like I am, early July is an ideal time to plan your vacation out west as I would bet my Sage you’re going to run into a lot of hungry fish in addition to the most prolific hatches of the year. I couldn’t imagine a better 4th than I experienced in 2013, but the Madison River just outside of Ennis, MT proved to be just as good if not a better place to celebrate America’s birthday. I was particularly excited about this year, as my older brother Austin and wife, Erin, of Signal Mountain, TN would be joining us for their first trip to Montana/Idaho. I used to follow him around as a little kid catching bass, crappie, stripers… you name it. He taught me everything I know about traditional fishing, so at the age of 13, knowing I’d never catch him in the bass fishing world, I picked up a fly rod. I began fly fishing for trout back in 2002 and haven’t looked back. I’ve taken him fly fishing several times throughout the years, but was excited to show him what the infamous trout waters of Montana/Idaho had to offer. We flew into Great Falls, MT on July 1. On our way to Ennis, MT, where we would call home for the next four nights, we made a stop in Craig, MT to fish the Missouri River. The Missouri had always been a bucket list river for me, but simply had never fished it. I knew the fishing would be good, but didn’t expect the numbers and size that she produced. I quickly realized the average fish in this river was about 17-20 inches!! BTW, that’s ridiculous. I did my fair share of research before hitting it, but had confidence in my approach, as most tailwaters fish more or less the same. We picked a pull off that looked promising, and jumped out of the truck to throw our waders on and rig up. Needless to say the fishing was epic, and in the few hours we fished, we managed to land a couple hogs, with a few getting away of course. Day 1 was a huge success as Austin had landed a 20 incher on the first day of the trip. We proceeded to make the beautiful drive south, through the capital city of Helena on our way to Ennis, Montana. Ennis has and will always be my favorite Montana town, I think… The green government sign as you are pulling into town boasts “Ennis, MT – population 1,100 – trout population 11,000,000”. I’m pretty certain there are more fly shops than restaurants, and there are no bars, but only saloons. We spent the next 4 nights on one of the most beautiful ranches I have ever seen. It didn’t hurt that the Madison was only about a mile from the cabin. Simply put, I couldn’t have had a better time over the next several days. From my girlfriend/family, to the Ennis rodeo, to the 4th of July fireworks in Virginia City, to monster trout sipping size 6 dry flies, I was in heaven. So now we can talk flies. The Salmon fly hatch is probably the most popular and well regarded hatch of the year in the Madison River Valley. Fly fisherman and dry fly enthusiasts travel from all over the country and world to fish these big, gnarly flies on the famous “hundred mile riffle”. When the salmon flies hatch out of the bushes, these bugs are everywhere, and I mean everywhere. In addition to the salmon flies, we also experienced overwhelming evening hatches of caddis. Bugs everywhere. Curious as to what was going on sub surface; I quickly reached down into the river and picked up a stone a little larger than the size of my hand. The underside of the rock was loaded with stoneflies. Several days later, these same bugs would make their way from the river bottom to the bushes, and eventually back into the river. We caught countless fish over the next four days on a variety of flies and techniques. The Madison never disappoints! On July 6th, we packed our bags and said goodbye to Ennis. We would spend the next four nights in Victor, ID. Victor is about 25 miles west of Jackson, WY. This too was a cool little town nestled deep in the valley below the Tetons. World Cast Anglers is located in town and a great place to go for advice and flies. The salmon flies continued to hatch, and we continued to catch fish. We focused our efforts primarily on the South Fork of the Snake River near the Idaho/Wyoming border. This river was full of wonderful surprises. Monster cutthroats, browns, and rainbows (or hybrids as the locals call them) call these waters home. I lost more big fish in this river on 4X than one could imagine. But don’t worry, I landed my fair share as well. Ever been into your backing on a 4wt reel? Me neither, until hooking into some of these beasts. It was time to go home, but I wasn’t done fishing yet. We were flying back out of Great Falls early on the morning of July 11th. Naturally, on our drive from Victor to Great Falls, we hit 3 Dollar Bridge one last time around lunch. Crushed some nice fish on the Madison, and then headed towards Craig, for a little evening fishing on the Missouri. The fishing on the last night was the hands down the best of the trip. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen that many bugs hatching, so many that even a decent drift would get hammered time after time. At one point, I remember laughing at myself because I was setting the hook on air. There were so many fish rising, it was difficult to distinguish a trout eating my fly or one of the real ones. What a way to end the trip. Until next time, Montana.Stay fly.

Fish porn.

I can remember the first time I heard about the Smoke Hole…. I was fishing the C&R Section of Passage Creek in Strasburg, VA last winter – the early stages of my trout indoctrination. I was fresh off of a trip to some hot spots in the Smoky Mountains with fellow FlyTimesDC contributor, Brogan Jayne (The Trout Guru), and trout fishing was just starting to grab my undivided attention after years of almost exclusively chasing bass and saltwater game on the fly. Passage was the first DH trout stream I explored on my own and although I was having success here and there, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why the fishing varied greatly with each trip. Keep in mind, I was (and to some degree still am) new to the trout game. But still, if you haven’t fished this DH creek, it is one of the more frustrating trout waters on the planet. Loaded with gorgeous riffles, pockets, and pools that should house a million trout each – the water is generally void of life. Poaching is the main issue. So much so that the State provides only the scrawniest trout entirely void of color and for the most part, fins, for its law abiding anglers ($100 for freshwater license and trout stamp). Sweet, Virginia! These “fish” (living golf balls) tend to be plucked from the stream before they even realize they are trout. With pictures like this to describe the hot action (http://www.murraysflyshop.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/12-h-tom-9.jpg or this http://www.murraysflyshop.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/hm-in-snp22.jpg, or this http://www.murraysflyshop.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/12-h-tom-2.jpg,....you get the picturez) how could you not believe in this fishery? Those trout – victims of powerbaited circumstance, nets, and redneck ego— already have enough on their plate outside of being misrepresented for commercial gain. Poor fish. But yeah…..Smoke Hole….Got sidetracked there. So I’m fishing Passage on this beautiful morning and eventually run into this nice fellow who is also frustrated by the lack of trout. We bitch about the poaching, remark on how beautiful the water is, and comment on the noticeable lack of life. We emphasize the potential and lament the creek’s current state of affairs. We talk about better places. Then he mentions this place in WV. He calls it a “Land of Giants”—the home of Hawg Johnson—some place called “The Smoke Hole”. Trout for miles he says. “You’ve got to go there, man!” So I do. A few months later, Kenny, Trent, Cullen, and I descended upon the Smoke Hole and found out firsthand how special this place can be. Albeit we fished the wrong section for most of the day, we caught plenty of memorable trout high sticking nymphs and as a group, caught a slam. One day was all it took to get me hooked on this place. I enjoyed it so much I went back the next weekend with my buddy, AJ. On a mission to bag his first trout on a fly rod, we got slammed again. Fish were taking hoppers off the bank and jacking up zebra midges in the riffles. Great times. But then summer came. The water got hot…and low. The trout game tapered off (something my girlfriend, Chelsea, had to unfortunately experience firsthand). Then the smallmouth bite got too hot to ignore. Tis the way of the seasons. But now that fall blessed us with cooler weather, changing leaves, and aggressive browns/hungry bows, it was time to head back to the canyon renowned for its large trout. After exchanging emails for a few weeks with fellow trout addict Terry Bazyluk, we finally got the dates down and committed to making the trip. For Terry, a 20+year resident of the District, the trip to Smoke Hole was a long time coming. An annual visitor of Big Sky country in the summer months, Terry was a skilled, knowledgeable trout fisherman who, like many in our area, found himself in a rut when pursuing local fly fisheries. After almost exclusively fishing the Gunpowder and a few of the other small streams in our area for “fussy, eastern trout”, how could you not be? It was time to change things up. While the technical challenges of these small, wild trout streams in our area make it difficult to “clean up”, they will make you an infinitely better fly fisherman. I’m a big fan of these streams for this very reason because they often require perfect casts into tight spaces, incredible stealth, monk-like patience, a somewhat creepy knowledge of the local insect life, and – when everything comes together- the ability to make your hook set count in order to be successful, they force you to get better. Amped about chasing some less finicky trout (and bigger ones) I made the rookie mistake of making a non-refundable reservation without so much as glancing at the weather. It was the one thing I hadn’t taken into account….Foolish. But with any fishing trip, it’s not really a fishing trip until something goes wrong. That’s a fact. So when I pulled up the Doppler that night, inevitably I saw something that made my stomach sink. The weather front was unavoidable. Spanning from Texas to Canada in an aggressive amalgamation of yellows, greens, and reds hell bent on destroying a perfectly good weekend of fly fishing– even the weatherman couldn’t miss this one. It was going to rain on Saturday. How much and how hard were the only questions remaining in my and fellow trout bum Terry’s minds. But like most fishermen, we decided to risk it. Simply put, there is a reason you buy rain gear (to use it) and what is a little monsoon when it stands between you and an encounter with that mythic beast known as Hawg Johnson? Exactly. We arrived in Cabins, WV on Friday afternoon and hit the C&R section hard for a few hours before darkness forced us off the water and back to the cabin. While I focused on throwing stimulators on 6x (dry flies are my new jam), Terry was hell bent on throwing big, articulated streamers in an effort to coax Hawg out of his hidey-hole. Splitting up, I made my way up river to hit a series of riffles and pocket water with dries while Terry focused his efforts downstream in water more conducive to swinging meat. From the get go, it was evident we timed this adventure right. Fish were looking up and wearing their reckless necklace in a big way. The closest comparison I can think of is a Rhodes kid on Beale Street at 3am with a hankering for Taco Bell. If it was food, they were willing to eat it. I probably won’t catch a fish for a year for saying that. But right off the bat I made some fireworks with a personal best brookie (15”) on a stimulator, the next cast brought a big bow to the net (17”), and that epic fish was followed up by a dozen or so chunky rainbows on assorted terrestrials and dries, including my first experience with Hawg Johnson that weekend… which resulted in an epic take on a well-placed stimulator from 40 feet away and a shredded strand of 6x. Brutal fun. More importantly though, we established a pattern for success that we could follow the next day. As in any facet of life, having confidence is a key component to success. In regards to fly fishing it is downright essential. There is a fine line between cockiness and confidence in this game. The Fish Gods know the difference between the two and make their own judgments accordingly (so don’t be a Dbag on the water). Seriously though, the simple fact of knowing that you caught some fish the day before does wonders for your swag or pep-in-the-step to fish hard and effectively the next day. Who knows, that swagger may even convince you to try something new that you normally wouldn’t have had the moxy to and you can pick up a new skill or technique….even if you neglected to look at the radar…… made the decision to wet wade AND left your rain gear in the car…. and THEN got caught in a fairly significant rain storm…..#FLYTIMES Drunk off trout slime and drenched to the bone, we packed up the rods for the day and made the drive over the mountain to dry off, grill some elk, and toast the day’s events with adult beverage. You can’t ask for a better way to end a day on the water and after sating ourselves with mountain beast and fancy fermented grape juice, we took another look at the Doppler. By all accounts the expansive front was going to hit us sometime around 1PM. What would ensue was anyone’s guess. The water was low and clear, but damn— there was a lot of rain heading our way. After talking it over, we agreed it would be important to utilize the pre-front madness (the same bite we experienced that afternoon) for as long as we could. The fishing had been that good. We set our alarms for 6AM, no questions asked. The next morning we made the trout bum pilgrimage that is a trek to McDonalds in Petersburg, WV at 6am. Two egg McMuffins each (one for now, one for later….) and black coffee were all we needed to hit the stream hard all day (and I mean, ALL DAY—7am to 7pm). Actually, Terry had a full day. I was an eager beaver and forgot to pack my wading boots in the car before leaving for the McCafe that morning. Coming to this realization halfway over a mountain on the way to the stream is never a good thing— even if you have a warm, morsel-y McMuffin in your hand. Not trying to ruin Terry’s morning, I alerted him of my grave error and continued the drive with the intention of dropping him and his gear at my favorite hole. I told him I’d be back to teach these fish a lesson in no time and began my schlep back to the other side of the mountain. Thank god for good music. To say I was incredibly frustrated with myself for leaving such an essentially obvious piece of equipment on the cabin’s front porch would be an understatement. But more often than not an important tool or piece of equipment gets left behind or lost at a crucial time. Over time you learn to cope with these little setbacks and adapt. It’s a mentality of shit happening, trying not to step in it, and if you do –wiping it off and forging ahead. During these not-so-favorable moments, it’s important to keep calm and think about alternative means to accomplish your goals. A good fly fisherman can overcome even the most deviant obstacles. Stay positive. Your day is not completely ruined. It’s just slightly delayed. For me, I wanted to maximize time on the water. Leaving the boots was a pretty large hindrance to that goal (40 minute round trip to cabins and back). But by taking a step back and breathing, I was able to get myself in a good place and ready to fish. Plus the difference between a 7:00AM and 7:40AM start time is pretty negligible when you really think about it and definitely not worth careening over a mountain cliff at breakneck speed for. When I arrived back at the cabin, instead of throwing my boots in the car and peeling out for the water, I decided to get my rig perfect and wader up. I took a breath, used the little boys’ room, and made sure I wasn’t forgetting anything else. Taking the 10 or so minutes to get everything organized and ready for the day absolutely saved me time and frustration. Putting on my waders before hopping back in the car was a good call too. When I arrived back at my favorite spot, I was ready to fish the minute I got out of the car with a clear mind, empty bladder, and no rush to rig up. Just me and the stream. No better feeling. That morning the absurd dry fly bite from the day before continued. In the first two holes I stuck a chunky brown and rainbow while experimenting with an absurdly unnecessary 16ft 6x leader that promptly knotted after a couple fish but got more takes on the dry than if I had been using a shorter leader (I guess). The experience was cool. Having never fished really long leaders before, it was a blast learning how to manipulate my cast and drift to do exactly what I wanted them to. It took a few casts to warm up, but eventually, I learned to cast softer (if you will) and the leader stopped knotting up as frequently. I realized the game was about picking shots and making your drifts drag free. It was a goddamn blast. Throughout the morning, I stuck 20 or so rainbows and browns on large stimulators fished in the runs and riffles. The fish were so aggressive you could almost call your shots. Again, sick. The sky began to darken as I worked my way upstream towards Terry around noon. Eventually meeting up at an impassable section of river, we decided to head back downstream to the car so we could fish the section above us before the heavy stuff rolled. Throwing on the rain gear and demolishing the second McMuffin, we shockingly made a good call. The heavens opened up a few minutes after leaving the car. Trading observations from the morning in the relative dryness of Buffy (my Explorer), we were glad to hear that the other had managed to get into some fish. Although the downpour would ultimately put an end to the incredible traditional dry fly fishing we were having (we’d have to switch to foam dries if we wanted to chase that dragon), we were confident the bite would only get better as more water entered the river.We were right. That afternoon, we were blessed with some of the greatest trout action I have ever witnessed. In one pool I caught 6 consecutive rainbows over 16” (up to 19”) on a homebrewed egg pattern fished under a massive foam indicator beetle. If one drift brought a fish to the net on the egg the next drift saw a fish explode on the beetle. Times like these are what GoPros were made for (sadly, I don’t own one…yet). It was one of those days where you could seemingly do no wrong – but nature has a really funny way of turning the tables. Making a cast into a fairly deep run, the overcast sky made it difficult to follow the black indicator beetle. But it wasn’t necessary. I looked for where I thought the fly should be. But oddly enough, it was stopped at the top of the run. It hadn’t moved an inch. It didn’t shoot under or jut off to one side like a typical take. It literally just floated in place as if anchored to something. There was no drag on the fly at all. Thinking I was probably hung up, I lifted the rod tip to see what was up and upon feeling the bottom rise with the rod raise, I set the hook just in case it was something special. That’s when my reality was shattered. A mass of speckled, rainbow flank erupted from the water— a fish well over 20” with the shoulders to match. Hawg Johnson? Could’ve been. Probably was. But as is the tradition with this blog, the line went slack, the hook floated midair in suspended animation, and I was left to day dream about the trout that could have been. It’s funny, but even when you’re catching fish, the presence of a monster or encounter with Hawg will rock your foundation. He almost acts like a reminder for why you’re out there. Just when you’re getting comfortable and think you’ve got everything figured out Hawg will show up and let you know you still don’t know shit….and you suck….and that he’s keeping that fly because it’s the last one in your box. Think you’re the coolest dude ever for catching a 22” bow on a dry? Hawg doesn’t care. Purely out of spite, he’ll take your fly on the next cast, break your line, and make you forget all about that “solid fish” you just caught. Shaking my head and doing my best to laugh off another failed bout with Hawg, I decided to head back down stream to where we parked the car and try my luck at the “money pool”. Having already encountered the Hawg twice, I was jonesing for another redemption shot.

On one of my previous trips to Smoke Hole, I encountered a giant brown trout in the money pool. That pig broke me off twice that weekend, stealing two, very essential terrestrial flies. I still remember the first refusal and take that fish offered me –its massive, golden flank burned into my memory. One day, I may catch him. I may not. I’d like to get my flies back at some point though. I guess it’s these encounters that will always keep me coming back. That pool will always be a special place for me. I was relieved to find the pool empty this late in the day. The rain and WVU football game kept most sane anglers off the water that day. Thank god. Working my way out to my usual spot in the middle of the dualistic pool (there are two headwaters/runs you can work if you enter the water below the fish and stealthily work your way up), everything felt right. Still working the mutant beetle-egg combo, I made a cast to the top of the pool and waited for the fireworks. As the beetle drifted haplessly through the kill zone, similar to a seal running the gauntlet off of South Africa’s Seal Island during Shark Week, I saw something monstrous rise from the dregs of the pool. Ascending from the depths to investigate the massive, foam insect on the surface, the trout stopped midway through the water column to check out this stupid, round chartreuse thing in its face. It made a decision before slinking back into the depths. Initially thinking the fish had again refused my generous offerings of foam and sharpened steel—my heart raced as I saw the beetle start sinking under. The pig had taken the egg! Similar to before, I raised the rod tip to set. Again, it felt like I was moving bottom and to my chagrin— again, Hawg took things way too seriously. Setting on the fish, I felt its massive head shake in anger. I saw a monstrous golden flash at the bottom of the pool. But before the fight could even start, the line went slack. My knees trembled. I released a primal howl. If I hadn’t been standing in 4 feet of water, I’d have fallen to my knees in anguish. The first two encounters with Hawg that weekend were ok. Laughable offenses. Cute miscues. The fish had bested me. Sometimes you just tip your cap. But this one was personal. The 6xhad failed me epically on the fish of my dreams. The one fish I fantasized about for months was gone. I once again, blew it with the hot girl in class. Checking my phone, it was 7pm. Over the course of 12 hours on the water, I forgot how many trout were stuck. If I had to put a number on it though, I’d say it was at least several, numerous, large handfuls worth of trugas. I know that’s not helpful. But it’s never been about numbers and has ALWAYS been about the experiences. For this trip, all I can tell you is that the fishing was epic (brown, bow, brookie slam each day), the dry fly bite incredible, the setting unreal, and the company, the type you’d like to keep. That night we hit the local bar scene. Tired and absolutely, fricking WASTED on trout slime, we slid into “Third Base” (the last stop before home…get it?) to grab man food and ale. Located on Main Street in Petersburg, Terry and I recapped the day’s absurdity. What had we just done? We smiled ear to ear. The beers tasted a little better that night. Incredibly, we never saw another angler all weekend. In hindsight it was a special setting and experience that was only made more epic by the approaching storm and aggressively feeding trout. The next morning, the fish gods smiled upon us again. The rain raised flows just slightly and the trout responded with an appreciative appetite. From 8AM until 2PM, the bite remained red hot and I ended my day on another big brook trout caught on a dead drifted streamer. Sated on fish slime and tired/achy from wading a dozen or so miles over the course of 22hrs on the water that weekend, we packed up Buffy and started the trek home. Driving past the hatchery where the mutant golden trout came into existence, the mountains shrinking behind us in the rearview, all was well until we put the Redskins game on the radio… Stay fly.

#fishporn

#releaseshots

The sun has yet to make its ascent over the Appalachian horizon as I slide into my waders and string up for the day. “Morse” by Nightmares on Wax blasts through Buffy’s speakers (my Explorer) as my black coffee cools on the truck bed and smoke from the nearby paper mill clogs the valley sky line in a thick, white veil of economic necessity. For a wild trout fishery, the smell is off putting. But I guess anything that desecrates such wilderness can’t smell good (similar to the goo monster from Fern Gully). Despite this, the Savage River flows on. It is a new morning on a new river. A light mist rises off the cold, black water in the early morning light. In a few hours it will be running clear and my mere shadow will spook anything resembling a trout, but for now its depths contain nothing but potential. For lack of a better word, the setting couldn’t be more….savage. Hell, I feel like I’m part of a Blitzen Trapper jam. But as I make the final preparation to my hopper set up and look out onto the stream, it hits me. You are so lucky to be here. Welcome to the land of Savages. At the recommendation of Beaver Creek Fly Shop owner James Harris – I drove up to the Savage to explore this river system for myself. I spent an afternoon and the full following day on the water chasing these wild trout. Located 40 minutes to the south of “The Queen City” (Cumberland, MD) near the towns of Piedmont and Keyser, WV (about 3hrs from the District of Columbia) – the Lower Savage River is a tail water that stretches through Western Maryland’s Savage River State Forest before meeting up with another top 100 TU fishery, the North Branch of the Potomac.

The Savage is divided into two sections (the Upper and Lower with the Upper Savage being more of a brook trout fishery), the Lower being where most fish since it contains a mixed bag of wild trout and a strong population of browns, brookies, and a few holdover rainbows who migrate up from the North Branch. One of Trout Unlimited’s top 100 US trout streams, there are no dumb stocker fish here. Trout are educated and finicky. Technical fishing is a must. The Lower Savage plays host to a myriad of trout water loaded with riffles and pocket water, as well as some deeper pools below some small falls. When fishing this water, it’s important to work your way out from the bank out as fish tend to hold in the places you wouldn’t expect them to. Think of fishing 3-dimensionally instead of 2-dimensionally as fish can be holed up under rocks or cuts in the bank. They won’t be happily munching in the middle of pools and runs like most stockers. Also, leader and tippet definitely come into play here. Anything over 6x and you’re asking to be skunked – hard. Also, natural flies are a must. Watch your flash. No bead heads. No indicators. No leader (I directly tied on 4lb fluorocarbon with a loop knot at the end to attach a foot or so of 7x tippet for my flies with another loop knot). SO MANY RULES! But if you can adapt and make the necessary adjustments – you know, letting yourself try something new and actually embracing it – you might even catch some fish. For me, the Savage was a learning experience. Beautiful water that was easy to (mis)read and trout that are as wild and educated as any found on the East Coast. I definitely took my lumps. But you know what? I wasn’t skunked. I managed to adapt my technique and slow down. I fished the shoreline on out and looked for places where a smart trout would be. I offered up my best presentations. In a day and a half on the water, I fooled three browns, one decent rainbow (13”), and a small brook trout. The browns were split between a hopper fished along the bank, my technical nymph set up, and the bow and final brown fell for the dropper. It was tough fishing. There were definitely stretches where getting a bite seemed impossible. Then on the third drift by the exact same rock, a trout would rise from the depths and destroy a dry. This is a river for those who want to have their trout fishing skills and faith pushed to the brink – a place where the last cast can be the only cast that even mattered that day. While highly touted by most publications as Maryland’s “crown jewel” trout water, the Savage is by no means a fit for all anglers. Technical fishing, tough wading (slick, uneven rocks, strong current), and fussy, wild fish being the main slights— but for anglers looking for the challenge of chasing truly WILD TROUT and perfecting their technical game– this is the place for you. Also, Niner’s Canal Pub on S. Mechanic Street in Cumberland has an incredible selection of craft brews from $4 on down to help you lick your wounds after a long day on the water. I will be back. Stay fly.

It may sound weird to those of you who may not fish, but I can still remember the first striped bass I ever caught. I was seven-years old and incredibly excited to be on Martha’s Vineyard for the first time. Being as fish obsessed then as I am now, my mom and stepdad did nothing but fan the flames upon stepping off the plane. It’s an island surrounded by fish. Uncle Richard catches tons of fish off of the dock. The mountains are made of candy….Well, maybe they didn't go that far. But, after hugging my grandparents and unpacking, I rigged up my new spinning rod (a Penn setup given to me by my parents), tied on a black and white jerk-bait, and ran down to the dock.

Being a kid and a first timer fishing in Martha’s Vineyard, my fishing swag was absolutely to the max. Beginner’s luck is just that powerful. Combine these two elements whenever you’re on the water and something cool is bound to happen. Well, lo and behold after about 10 minutes of chucking the lure as far as I could, I felt my first telltale striper slam. The rod doubled over, the drag pulled, and from that moment on, I was ruined forever - destined for a life of chasing the man in striped pajamas at ungodly hours of the night.

As the years progressed and our family kept returning to the Vineyard, fishing remained a mainstay on my visits to our grandfather’s house in Vineyard Haven. Through the teachings of Martha’s Vineyard Time’s managing editor, Nelson Sigelman, I eventually started to learn the striped bass and bluefish fisheries on the island. My haunts shifted from the Oak Bluff arcade at sunset to the ripping tides off of West and East Chop. Even at an early age, covering an entire beach in a night or morning with slug-gos and top-water plugs was not unusual for me. In the week or so I’d spend on the island each summer, I’d manage to stick a couple fish – even lucky enough to catch a 37” keeper in the harbor as a 16 year old – but as I grew older, my fascination with the Chops faded. The island is a big wild place, there were other places to explore, other parties to crash. On an island renowned for its large fish, I wanted big to be the norm, not the exception.

When I got my driver’s license, I began driving out to Menemsha and Lobsterville – destination beaches for the striper obsessed. I’d walk the beach and navigate the rocks, chucking in quest of a 20 lb fish, the “big striper” bench mark. But most nights, I’d come back with smaller fish or random keepers. The big one eluded me. I’d plug the night away with my spinning gear, covering entire stretches of beach and fishing myself to the point of exhaustion the next day. I was fishing hard, not smart those days.

Even though the spinning rod continued to dominate into my late teens, I became intrigued by the fly rod and began to incorporate it into my nightly rounds. I wasn’t particularly good at fly fishing on these trips. I could cast about 40 feet and only had a handful of flies. I lost way more fish than I ever landed. I figured one bite, hit, or lost fish to be a good night. But overtime, I learned the beaches and how to recognize dead water. I learned where fish staged on certain parts of the tide and that certain beaches fished better on falling tides than others and vice-versa. By the time my childhood was over, I found myself to be a fairly competent Vineyard angler - most of that due to absorbing Nelson’s profound knowledge over years, but also through hard work, experimentation, and pushing myself to fish better.

This year’s annual migration to the Vineyard was different than past trips. For the second year in a row, we found ourselves outside of Vineyard Haven in West Tisbury. The rental house, located on the banks of Lake Tashmoo, offers some excellent shots at striped bass on the beaches outside of the “lake” on outgoing tides. Similar to the rips off of West Chop where bait would be flushed from the harbor on fateful falling tides, bait is essentially vacuumed out of the Lake Tashmoo inlet and out into the less friendly confines of Vineyard Sound. Naturally, this is more than an ideal spot to fly fish for striped bass. For the next two weekends, I would explore as much of it as I could.

It’s 1:00 AM on Fourth of July weekend in Martha’s Vineyard. Drinks have been served and everyone bathes in the afterglow of their respective nights. For my step sister and brother, their friends, Andrea and Juliette, and my buddy, Christopher – this meant meeting the ever awkward Larry David and witnessing young Christopher sing a duet to Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” with Miss Pocket Full of Sunshine herself, Natasha Beddingfield. It was a night they will probably never forget.

My night was far less eventful. Mediocre fly fishing for striped bass (one 23” fish and another one missed over the course of 4 hours) but as always, it was time well spent with Nelson. I made the right choice. But while my compatriots buzzed with excitement, I anxiously waited for the tide to change.

Regardless of our different paths that evening, it’s not time to go to bed. There are still beers in the fridge. The good times can’t end. No way. No how. It’s not time for that yet. Sure, a delightful evening of fantastic food and revelry accompanied by a peaceful fog deserves its due with a fine night’s sleep, but what night isn’t substantially improved by sticking a monster fish in the face?

While I sit and enjoy a Magic Hat IPA in the bug-free confines of my room , the tide chart fills my head with illusions of grandeur. I see boiling water. I hear splashes. Crashing beasts in the darkness. I can feel the bend in my 8wt. The line racing out through my fingers. The drag screams and my heart beats on a little faster. Strangely enough, it’s the exact same feeling after all of these years. A combination of pure joy and adrenaline. My Buddy Chris Yates interrupts my train of thought. “Rem, need another beer?” I snap back to reality. I do. I’m still in my button down and jeans from earlier. But not for long….The tide has started to turn. It’s time to suit up and head to the kayaks. ”Hey man, let’s take this one for the road.”

I’m not sure what compels me to take to the water at night. Certainly there are more practical things I could be doing with my time, but there’s a certain allure that I find particularly unique to finding yourself alone in the darkness of an empty beach. To me, there is nothing more beautiful than finding that peaceful serenity that allows responsibility to be respectfully placed on the back burner, the ingestion of an extra beer or two, and the ruthless pursuit of large fish. But an empty beach under the cloak of darkness is a beauty on to itself. The black waves gently roll in, the stars show off above you, and as long as the tide keeps up its pace - the possibilities are endless. Put me in a place with nothing but free time and I’ll often fish myself into an exhausted stupor. That’s my idea of a vacation. Take my daily routine for example:

When you’re in a fishery as special as Martha’s Vineyard or in past stories - Siesta Key – you’ve got to take advantage of your time on the water. Similar to big game hunting, choosing your spots and shots will require a sacrifice sometimes. The big fish don’t always come to the playground. Even when they do come out to play – they do not come on every cast. But sometimes, things line up. There was the time my good friend, Chelsea McLeod, and I were greated with a small blitz of fish the moment we arrived on the beach. Another night, I stuck a keeper fish over a breathtaking sunset. The next morning, I forced myself out of bed and found myself on fish all morning. I saw stripers keeping pace with my sand eel, the fly resting on the tip of their nose. I had 45” fish swim within a few feet of me. I even managed to get one on camera. Over the course of 11 days on the water, I managed to catch one keeper striper (33"), some fish that were pushing the border (26", 27") and a bunch of fun low-mid 20" fish in skinny water. I consistently caught fish each time out, something that might become rarer in the coming years.

There will always be parties. Giant stripers in the shallows? Not so much. Especially when one considers the rate this once fantastic fishery’s stocks are dropping due to pollution in the Chesapeake Bay and over fishing all along the East Coast. For now, I’ll chase the fish over the buzz. As Matt Miles says, “the tug is the drug.” I really believe that.

West Virginia's Monongahala National Forest plays host to a diverse and thriving ecosystem that harbors one of the elite trout waters in our region. Located 3 hours from The District (a breathtaking drive through the Shenandoah and Blue Ridge Moutain ranges), the South Fork of the North Branch of the Potomac River (can we change it to Monongahala River or river of three ofs?) is an accessible fly fishermen's paradise and with over 90 miles of fishable trout water, how could you not fall in love? Having attempted this trip previously (our crew got snowed out in March), Cullen, Kenny, Trent, and I descended upon Monongahala's Smoke Hole Canyon with the full intention of getting away from it all, drinking a few beers, and ultimately - sticking some trout in the face.

We made our way into the park around 10pm Saturday night and after accidentally squatting overnight in a family campground (the locals were cool with it) under the brightest moon I've ever seen, we woke up to that stillness you can only find in the mountains. It's hard to describe when the shackles of 4G and cell service are lifted - a strange elation of knowing you're doing what you love and there are literally ZERO distractions or things to pull you away from it. In other words, we were going to have a full day on the water. As we packed up camp at 6:30AM the next morning, a few tops were popped (bud light and makers mark is a good a heathanistic sacrifice to the trout gods) before tying up the laces of our wading boots, throwing the wands (fly rods) on the roof rack, and hitting the road.

Our campsite, which ran next to the river through the put and take section of the South Fork, had some good looking trout water so we decided to not waste any time and get after it. Splitting into two "teams" - Kenny and Trent vs. Cullen and myself for A) biggest fish and B) most fish (spoiler alert: pay up boys) - we spent the morning fishing from 7am-12pm and managed to get into some fish.

The morning, highlighted by Trent's solid 12" brookie, was mostly spent catching small rainbows, fall fish, and the occasional smallmouth. Although the fish were smaller in this section, action was plentiful and the fish wild and absolutely gorgeous (no ugly stockers here). I spent the day throwing nymphs (size 16 prince, pheasant tail, or hare's ear followed by a foot and a half of 5x and size 22 midge) and managed to catch 25 trout in the morning to put our team up 29 to 26.

Meeting up at noon to crack a few more tops and pound some turkey/bread sandwiches we traded notes and rerigged. The absence of a Monongahala Monster was peculiar. Not one person had hooked into a trout over 12" in a river reknown for Hawg Johnson encounters. We decided that it'd be best to fish the C&R section by working our way upstream from the section just below it. Although the "competition" was still on, I fished with Trent while Kenny and Cullen paired up s little ways downstream.

Upon moving a little further up from Trent, I noticed what I thought were three palominos (orange rocks) in a good looking pool and decided to beat it to death with my nymph set up. After pulling a few small bows, the indicator shot under and a solid 18" bow erupted from the water. Luckily, Trent was nearby with his GoPro and after helping with the netting, managed to get some incredible underwater release footage. With our first "big" fish out of the way, we could relax, the instagram itch quelled, our beloved website/blog/reputation salvaged all upon the survival instinct of a wild fish. We pulled a few more nice fish from the pool before heading up to fish the first few runs of the C&R section to cap off the day.

Splitting off from the group, I managed to find a great looking pool at the start of the C&R section. I made an adjustment to my rig (upping the split shot and tying on a size 18 egg pattern), the indicator shot down and a healthy 16" bow flashed. After getting some more underwater footage, I went to picking the pool apart and eventually ended up pulling a solid brown (15") and a couple more rainbows before I was distracted by the victory wails of my compatriots.

While I was in the run below them - Trent, Kenny, and Cullen were doing quite well up river. Kenny landed a bigger brown, Trent his best bow of the day, and Cullen chipped in with a few nice fish himself. Occasionally looking upstream to see how they were doing, I noticed Trent was shirtless in the middle of the pool. Weird. A few minutes later, he was still there, Kenny and Cullen looking on excitedly. Then I heard it - a combination of yehti screech and triumph. An eruption of emotion that is only appropriate when one holds what they seek. To Trent - that was a 22" rainbow trout. After taking some pictures, we released the fish back into the depths of its pool.

I will admit, my job is pretty cool. Last year I spent a couple of weeks in Colorado, and over the next two months I will be spending about four weeks in California. The best part about working in these Western states you might ask, the weekend fishing vacations that I naturally tie into the tail end of these business trips. My class ended around 2:00 PM this past Thursday in downtown San Francisco, and I rented a car and made my way towards Kiene’s fly shop in Sacramento, CA. Overall one of the coolest fly shops I have ever been in, and definitely the largest selection of bugs anywhere. Got the essentials in Sacramento including food, flies, batteries for my headlamp, Trout Bum by Jon Gierach, and was on my way to the largest desert lake in North America.

Arrived at Pyramid Lake, about 35 miles northeast of Reno, NV, around 10:30 PM to a closed general store, quickly realizing there would be no fire tonight to keep me warm. This alkaline lake is covered in beaches from the northern most part all the way down south, where I spent the majority of my time. Not only do these beaches make for some excellent fishing (the ones having deep drop offs often just feet from the beach), they also provide some of the coolest camping I’ve ever experienced. Advice – Whenever you only have room to pack either a tent or a sleeping bag, go with the bag, especially if there is a remote possibility temperatures will be dropping to the low 40s with wind. I, on the other hand went with the tent, and proceeded to freeze.

I woke up the next morning around 5:30 AM, enjoyed the beautiful sunrise making its way through the surrounding mountain range, and headed to the camp store. Pyramid Lake is located on the Paiute Indian Reservation and all activities, law enforcement, etc. is run/regulated by the Paiute’s and not the Feds. I got my tribal permits for fishing and camping for the next two days and headed down to the water. The majority of the morning was spent trying to figure out where to fish, how to fish, and what to fish. It was a challenge, and though I have done a solid amount of still water trout fishing, this was unlike any type of fishing I had ever done before. The lake itself is 30 miles long and 188 square miles in size. White caps are common here as the winds blow at ferocious speeds, making it difficult to fly fish as you might imagine. A popular technique for fishing Pyramid Lake is by means of a step ladder, which helps the angler get a height advantage over the water (very nice when fly fishing). It’s a productive way to fish as anglers wade out from the beaches until they reach the drop off, where they get on their ladder and begin casting beyond the drop. An interesting approach, but it makes sense as this is where the fish cruise. I stayed away from the ladders and fished the beaches with ledges closer to the shore.

Intimidation, frustration, and helplessness are words that come to mind after my first day on the water. We all know the feeling and it’s not a very good one at that. What do you do in these situations? It’s quite simple, you watch people who know what they are doing and try to imitate their technique. If you are lucky, persistent, and polite often times they might even give you a few pointers. I ended up fishing the next two days with a couple of guys who in the fly world are considered professionals. One guy took a particular liking to me and appreciated the amount of miles I had put in to get to this world class fishery. His name was Jeff, a guide and lifelong fly fisherman/conservationist out of Mammoth, CA. I can honestly say that this guy was probably the best fisherman I have ever seen and hands down the sexiest cast I’ve ever laid eyes on (a right handed Lefty Kreh if you will). He was the man and gave me a few pointers and was excited to help me land my first Lahontan Cutthroat. He must have landed over 20 fish to my 0 throughout the day, as I helped him land several fish in the 4-7 lb range. After fishing all day without a bite, I called it quits as the sun began to set behind the same mountains that it rose from, nearly 13 hours ago. Frustrated as I was, this was not the first time I had been skunked on the water. That’s why they call it fishing and not catching.

I experienced a much more pleasant night of camping the second night including a large beach fire, hotdogs, and IPAs. I woke up on Saturday morning with a new attitude and feeling refreshed. I had the confidence that was much needed to succeed at such a fishery and was certainly lacking the day before. I arrived at SandHole beach at sunrise and landed my first two Lahantons within the first two hours of daybreak. The overall satisfaction I experienced from the first fish was like no other. From the indicator shooting to the depths of the lake, to the bend this monster of a fish put in my rod, to finally beaching him and holding him in my hands, I can’t say which part got me the most excited. But I can say, that it was a feeling I hadn’t felt in a long time. Holding a beautiful 24 inch Lahontan Cutthroat with such vibrant colors and large, sharp teeth for the first time was one of the highlights of my fishing career. I was on cloud 9, and the skunk was off my back. It was time to head back down to Popcorn beach and tell my new friends how I faired to the north.

What I didn’t know was that I was about to experience one of the best/most rewarding days of trout fishing I’d ever had. I spent the rest of the day fishing the same stretch of water, and boy did it pay off. The cutthroats cruise up and down the shoreline all day in search for food and also proper spawning grounds. The spawn, pre, and post is the best time to catch these fish as this is the only time of the year the fish are close enough to shore. There are NO small fish in this lake. Literally the smallest fish I saw in two days was 16 inches. Anyways, just like all trout, they eat a variety of critters including baitfish, beetles, suckers, midges, and various other nymphs. I fished a variety of flies but most productive for me were Mahalo, Zebra, and Root beer midges in sizes 10 and 12. Yes, I know those are ridiculously large midges, but so are the fish. Pretty typical to standard nymphing I have done in the past just with a much longer leader (indicator to bottom fly was anywhere from 8-12 feet).

I have been chasing cutthroat trout in alpine lakes throughout Colorado and the West for nearly a decade now. They are hands down my favorite species of trout, and always will be. I am very fortunate to have had the opportunity to fish such beautiful and quality cutthroat fisheries, but I can easily say Pyramid Lake tops them all. Prior to this trip, I could count on one hand the number of cutthroat I have caught reaching 20 inches. In one day at Pyramid Lake I caught 10 fish over 20 inches and 2 coming in just under. In 1925, the world record cutthroat trout was pulled out of Pyramid Lake, an astonishing 41 lb, 39 inch fish (that’s over l lb per inch…for those of you keeping track). Needless to say, the sky is the limit at this fishery and my goal over a lifetime is to land a 10 lb Lahontan Cutthroat before it’s all said and done…

There is only one thing in this world that I enjoy more than catching trout, catching big trout. I had heard there is no better place in the South than the Soque River near Clarkesville, GA to fulfill this lustful wish. This past Saturday morning, my good friend Shay Womack and I embarked on a two day fishing trip in pursuit of trout measured by weight, not length. We headed up into the North Georgia mountains to get away from the city for a few days and literally think about nothing other than getting the perfect drift through every riffle, pocket, and run we came across. It started raining the night before and didn’t really stop until we had been on the water for about two hours. I had only fished this river once before and was uncertain how this torrential downpour would affect water levels, clarity, fish activity, etc… Sure a small creek like this turns into Yoo-Hoo pretty quick after a big rain, but does that mean the fish will shut down? Simple answer: No.

Long answer: Rain does a number of things to trout rivers and streams, but most importantly it stirs up an abundance of aquatic insects both within the stream, as well as from the bank and overhanging brush. As the rain pounds the ecosystem, the water becomes more swift and violent, stirring up nymphs and other sub surface bugs from underneath rocks and also within the sand and mud. On top of that, worms and grubs get pushed into the water from the bank, and beetles and other terrestrials fall out of the trees and bushes. So if the trout’s vision is not impaired too badly and they can actually see these tasty meals floating through their feeding lanes, you could be in for an epic day on the water… I mean buffet.

We finally get down to the water and find that not only is it a caramel color, but the water level is way up and swift. I say bring it on. Now is the time to put away all those snobby little trout accessories that we are so often criticized for: 7x, size 22 Griffith’s gnats, neoprene booties, etc… Allow the redneck in you to come out (assuming you are fortunate enough to have it) and think thick leaders/tippet and flash-flash-flash! Within the first 30 minutes Shay and I each managed to land a fish in the 22-24 inch range along with a couple other guys in the 16-18 inch range. After that, I knew we were in for a special weekend on the water.

Between the two of us, we probably landed close to 25 fish over the course of the day. Among many other funny moments, Shay managed to catch ALL brown trout until his very last fish of the day. For those of you not familiar with trout fishing, brown trout are usually rarer than rainbows, but he seemed to be keyed in on these pre-historic monsters. We were supposed to be off the water by 5:00 PM, and it was about 5:45 at this point when I heard screams from an excited yet bewildered Shay who was just around the bend downstream of me. Finally, Shay had hooked a rainbow, and the biggest one of the day. I let him fight the fish for a few minutes before heading down to assist with a net job. This fish was playing hard to get so props to Shay for putting up a great fight. We finally scooped this beast and captured a couple cool pics before releasing him back to his stomping grounds. Truly an incredible fish and Shay’s biggest to date, coming in I would say in the 24-26 range. After an incredible day on the water, it was finally time to get into some dry clothes and head to the lake house for a warm fire.

We woke up the next morning to blue bird skies and 60 degree weather. Who would have thought after we froze our asses off in the freezing rain the day before? Maybe Al Gore was right after all… Anyways the water here was just as epic as the day before, if not better, and the fish on average were even bigger. I caught one of my biggest trout of all time which was exhilarating to say the least and hooked a big brown that would have topped the previous fish. But, no point in telling you about that, right? I can not say enough about how well this fishery is managed and what a beautiful untouched piece of property they maintain here at Brigadoon. The number of fish landed over 20 inches was sickening and I’m certain that my next fishing trip will leave me dreaming of the monsters that call this beautiful stream, home. By the end of the day, my coonhound, Fowler, was ignoring fish under 20 inches – ridiculous!!

The Soque was everything it was built up to be, with Blackhawk and Brigadoon both holding the monster trout they claimed. Both of these fishing lodges were incredibly well managed and the quality of trout were second to none. This is one hell of a fishery regardless of where you call home, and with respect to monster trout, I must say this place stacks up pretty nice with British Columbia and Alaska. If you have been fly fishing for years and never managed to land that trophy fish, book a trip at one of these two places and I guarantee it you will get smashed. Remember, when you find yourself in ideal water and the fish are cooperating, don’t take it for granted, because your next trip is sure to be a humbling experience.

Before I left for the trip I had to prepare myself for the challenges of pursuing a musky with a fly rod. While there is a cult of avid anglers seeking one of the ultimate high-risk, high-reward species in the sport of fly fishing, there aren’t many of them, and they’re not normal. Musky fishermen are nuts, plain and simple.

Muskies are the largest member of the pike family, and their name is an abbreviation for muskellunge. This fish can grow to intimidating sizes, depending on age (they can live up to 20 years) and food source. The average musky in most waters today is 30 to 38 inches in length and about 8 to 16 pounds. Thick-bodied fish in the upper 40-inch range or larger can tip the scales at 30 to 50 pounds.

Finding muskies generally involves locating ambush points or hiding places in deeper pools of water. Known as the fish of 10,000 casts, a good day on the water for a musky fisherman often includes just seeing a fish; a great day could be witnessing some fish follow your fly or strike at it; and an exceptional day of musky fishing means you actually caught a fish.

The right equipment is paramount, and I upgraded big time when I chose to go out with my friend and guide, Matt Miles (mattmilesflyfishing.com), a true musky junky. Matt spent his entire 20s as a guide and trout bum in Colorado before moving back home to Virginia where he now guides for freshwater striped bass, smallmouth bass, trout and musky. Most of his guiding is done out of a Boulder Boat Works drift boat, a welcomed treat for any fly fisherman. This boat has it all.

Matt is also a crazed musky fly tier. His fly box can be daunting for the first-timer.

The approach I use to cast these big 12-14 inch flies is the water haul. Instead of false casting and double hauling, I simply threw one back cast about half of my desired cast length, and let the fly sit on the water for just a second, followed by a forward cast. The added drag from the water on the fly loads the rod and makes it easier to cast accurately at shorter distances. An adequate fly rod and line for this situation makes all the difference: on this day I was using a Beulah Blue Water Series 9’ 11wt with a 300 grain sinking line.

Our morning started out slow, not seeing a fish for a few hours. Keeping in mind muskies are window feeders, we were hopeful the afternoon would yield some action.

The first fish I saw came out of nowhere and struck my fly. After a hard strip set and rod lift, I realized there was no tension on the line. He left as quickly as he came, and the hook never went in his lip. Shit. Musky have poor vision (and a blind spot between their eyes to boot), and often times they rely on the mechanoreception from the lateral line to locate prey. This can lead to short-striking, of which I was now very aware. It was painful to behold.

After that miss and another follow from a bigger fish without hooking up, the morale was visibly low, and my arm was killing me. I came into this trip with a troubled elbow, and throwing heavy musky flies with an 11wt rod for hours on end was not a part of the treatment plan.

Push on.

I was now in a deep hole and needed to get my fly down in the water channel to get their attention. An old tree trunk lay at the bottom of the river, and I felt confident there might be some fish in the area. I sensed the strike before I ever saw a thing. On this retrieve my fly was overcome by the fish… and I knew it was a musky.

Thankfully, the hook did its job, and I was able to get some great photos with this 40” 20 pound fish.

Seeking this top-of-the-food-chain predator is known to push the limits of fly fishing sanity. Though I was fortunate not have to throw all 10,000 casts, it’s certain I will never forget my first musky on the fly. When it comes to pushing the envelope of physical and mental anguish - size matters.